


Friendly Fire

by ChocolatePecan



Series: A Place for Tomorrow [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood, Bonding, Gen, Gladio isn't immune to the call of ancient training grounds, Ignis doesn't want a fuss, Noct was a super clumsy child, Prompto is an accidental vandal, single graphic description of violence against a daemon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15051344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatePecan/pseuds/ChocolatePecan
Summary: In the dark pit of Costlemark, without items and essential curatives, they're fighting for their lives. Gladio senses the increased importance of the bond with his brothers, as they shed blood to keep each other alive against a near-constant stream of aggressors.It's not only the aggressors that are the problem. The building itself is a menace.Even the most experienced soldier can make a mistake in Solheim's ancient military base.





	Friendly Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkTail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkTail/gifts).



> Wow, this work has been a long time coming. It's the fourth prompt fill from an 'inspire me!' request on my [tumblr](https://opheliacrow.tumblr.com/) a while back. I'm not taking new prompts for now, as I have quite the backlog!
> 
> This one's for Inktail and their prompt words: intricate, Gladio, debris, and Costlemark. I hope it's worth the wait! :D

Havens don’t usually need a night watch, but the creatures they’ve been fighting in Costlemark are the nastiest Gladio’s ever seen. He trusts the magic of havens, but it’s clear nobody’s been down here in an age to maintain them. Rust has foxed the locking mechanism of the foot-thick steel door, and the blue potion suffusing the haven’s fire circles has been all but dry.

Gladio can’t afford to cut corners. The watch has been decided by who has the most health, with night split into five portions. That’s meant Gladio has been first and last watch every night. He’s strong enough to take the extra shift and he knows it. Part hard work, part genetics, he’s always prided himself on his physical ability. He needs it to protect his people.

When Ignis is fourth watch, he leaves Gladio to rise for the fifth on his internal body clock, and hands him a coffee when he’s upright. When Noct is fourth watch, Gladio is usually woken with the nudge of a boot, and brought to consciousness by the expulsion of air caused by Noct flopping down beside him.

Prompto hasn’t been fourth watch. He’s been taking hard knocks in the dungeon’s enclosed spaces. He’s fast with his feet and his guns, but he can’t get the range he needs to use them properly. In the smallest cells, goblins and elder couerls move fast enough to catch up with him.

Gladio hadn’t predicted Prompto’s complete dedication to Noct. The lanky dweeb his charge picked up on his first day of high school was proving to be quite the fighter. Punching a voretooth in the face to save your buddy is pretty gutsy. But twice down here he’s been too reckless. One of those times Ignis had to drag him to the next camp.

They’ve become too reliant on Noct’s magic, Gladio thinks, as he swings his greatsword and breaks the spindly leg off an uttu. She screeches and lunges for him, mouth open. Neither Gladio nor his sword are built for swiftness. Calculating the arc of his defensive swing, he knows he won’t make it in time – but there’s no way he won’t try.

Noct appears at the corner of Gladio’s vision. With a single deft movement he decapitates the uttu, then turns back to the one he’d been fighting. The blade came so close to Gladio’s face that he won’t need to tidy up the left side of his beard anytime soon.

“Good save.” Gladio runs behind Noct’s uttu and swings his sword, leaving a deep gouge in her abdomen.

“Learned from the best.” Noct switches from lengthy Balmung to the twin teeth of the Zwill Crossblades. He finishes the uttu by stabbing her in the chest and tearing the blades away from each other. His chest is like bellows, his back and face slick with effort in the poor light.

Ignis isn’t faring well, either. His normally upright standing has drifted to a stoop and his arm sports a red gash. Before Gladio can stride across the cell to rescue him, Prompto moves to Ignis’ side. Wearing a snarl, he pistol-whips the uttu that left the gash, shoots her in the throat, and then extends a hand to Ignis.

Their team work was shoddy to start with, though they’re finally getting there. But after five days and nights of darkness and daemons, and eating food that carries the taint of the dungeon’s rot, they’re tired. Even Gladio’s internal compass is off. Without the sun to navigate by, they could be facing any direction at all.

Gladio refuses to think about the many layers of earth and stone over their heads. He just trusts that ruins in as good a condition as this, after so many years, mean Solheimers really knew their stuff.

They descend another set of stairs, fight another set of monsters. They gain bigger wounds, heftier scars, sweatier bodies, and harder bonds. There’s a moment where Gladio wonders if there is actually a bottom floor, or if they’ll just fall off a staircase into the molten core of the earth.

When they pause in a cleared cell, it’s to place bandages over wounds and check how well the others party members are doing. They’re familiar enough now to know just by looking. Gladio can tell it’s Ignis’ turn for a bad day. Prompto’s already winding the bandage he’d been keeping as a spare around the neglected gash on Ignis’ arm.

“I’m quite capable of doing that myself, Prompto.” Ignis watches in tired amusement.

“I vouch.” Noct raises a hand. “He’s been bandaging me since I was, what, eight?”

“Five, I believe.” Ignis pushes up his glasses. “I seem to remember a particular instance of you jumping off your bed and landing face-first on a chest of drawers.”

“Yee-ouch.” Prompto screws up his nose. Pensively tucking in the end of the bandage, he says, “I don’t get up close and personal with the daemons like you guys, so my hands are cleaner. Besides, Ignis is always taking care of us.”

“There really isn’t a need to fuss.” Ignis doesn’t withdraw his arm, though.

“Hey, let him.” Noct leans down to pick up the bottle of water they’d used to clean their wounds. “He learned fussing from the best, too.”

There’s an impish snicker from the bottom of the descending staircase. Gladio hunches and extends a hand, ready to summon his sword. “Speed it up, fellas. It’s not safe here.”

Noct leads the way down the staircase, and Gladio follows closely behind. He’s counting enemies from the sounds they make below. “Got six, Noct.”

Noct’s face is set, his stance confident. There’s been no sign of the whiny, overprotected little precious for months now. Where once he complained about being hot at the top of a volcano, Noct doesn’t even shiver at the hollow cold of the dungeon. He does what needs to be done, when it needs to be done, and takes on the consequences. Gladio’s internal pilot light flourishes, and he warms. Noct’s becoming more than a leader. He’s becoming a king.

Gladio was wrong about the number of enemies, and the octet of goblins on the next floor are hell raisers. Trapping them in corners makes them easier to kill, but they’re so nimble it’s hard to get them there in the first place.

Ignis is picking up his game after the last few cells. He might have claimed there was no need to fuss, but the concern Prompto showed has had an obvious impact. Ignis is a guy who, once bonded, will do just about anything for you. All he asks in return is appreciation for the effort. He’s astute, and calm, and has been damn near priceless on this road to hell.

With a roar, Gladio breaks the back of a snared goblin. Its corpse smokes and dissipates, and Gladio turns to view his teammates’ progress. Noct is dispatching a goblin at high speed, Ignis is giving out blindsides, and Prompto is levelling his bazooka at a pair of goblins trying to squeeze through the portcullis.

The bazooka _thunks_ , and Gladio senses the ammo’s arc like a dog whistle. He instinctively ducks.

The warhead impacts a goblin and sends both it and its partner smashing into the wall. But the _thu-toom_ of the warhead is too substantial, the dust and debris it throws up is too thick. Rubble pounds the floor, but Noct has barely noticed. He’s too focused on the goblin he’s fighting, even as he edges backwards towards the freshly driven hole in the wall.

Gladio moves to grab Noct’s shoulder, pulling him clean away from stumble hazards, and moves to slash at the goblin in his stead. Before he can finish the move, he hears Prompto yell something, then hears the familiar crack of his handgun as he fires it. The goblin extends its arms and sags to its knees before disappearing.

The four cough in the dust-filled cell, their enemies temporarily dealt with. Each of them creeps forward to peer into the adjoining cell.

“Okay, that? Was not meant to happen.” Prompto holds his handgun like it’s the only real thing in the room.

“I should think not,” Ignis leans into his ready pose, still holding his pair of Vigilantes. “Solheim built this as a military base. These walls have withstood countless ammunition mishaps and daemon attacks”

“Trap,” Gladio says, and Ignis grunts his agreement.

Gladio’s become used to the sigils scattered on every wall of the dungeon. In the previously hidden room, beyond the curls of dust still settling, he can see even more of them. They’re more intricate than the circular or half-square ones that surround the doorways. The complex pattern of curlicues and dots glows red like maple trees before leaf-fall.

“What… do you suppose is in there?” Prompto hides the quiver well enough that a stranger wouldn’t hear it.

“Let’s find out,” Noct steps towards the broken threshold.

“No. Not you.” Gladio tugs him out of the way. “Wait for me to give the all clear.”

In their rough-hewn purgatory, twilit by mythril lamps, Gladio knows they can’t afford a single slip-up. If one of them falls in battle they can be dragged to the next haven. If they all fall, the havocfangs scattered between the havens will eat well.

Noct grudgingly stands aside, so Gladio can take a step over the rubble and into the reddening glow. He keeps one broad hand on the broken stonework, scanning for threats, before stepping right inside.

The cell hums. It’s pleasant, and Gladio’s comfortably warm, like he’s been sitting in a camping chair during a Galdin Quay sunset. The rhythm of the room’s purr changes as he moves to its centre. It’s adapted to match his heartbeat. Instinct tries to get his attention, but instead of its usual full-body alarm call, it’s just a little tickle at the base of his skull.

When Gladio turns back, three strangers stare at him through a large hole in the wall. He wonders briefly what their problem is. The little dark-haired one looks horrified, a sword held loosely in his hand. The blonde one with the handgun looks similarly shook. The spectacled one raises his daggers and grits his teeth.

Gladio realises he’s the only one without a weapon. He crouches, extends his hand, and as if by magic an immense sword appears in his grip. The kindly hum of the cell flips into a screech, and Gladio doesn’t have time to act before he’s pitched into absolute black.

A vacuum roars around him. Dust fills his mouth and his eyes, caking the back of his throat.

When Gladio opens his gritty eyes again, sword still in hand, he’s standing inside the grey stone walls of a dungeon cell. Vaguely familiar red sigils fade in and out on the walls before becoming inert. He shakes his head, trying to clear the intense pressure inside his skull. He’s got a headache that feels like the payoff of a week-long drinking binge, and he can hardly see straight.

There’s only one torch beam in front of him. He’s used to seeing four. In his mind’s eye Noct’s expression of devastation comes back, and it’s a sharp enough memory to make Gladio look at his arms to see if he’s suddenly become a monster. Had he really forgotten his brothers? And if he couldn’t recognise them in that moment, what had they seen in him?

Gladio is reassured to find he’s still Gladio. But he’s on his own, he’s compromised, and he doesn’t know where his people are.

“Shit.”

If there’s a door in the new room, he can’t see it.

“Dammit!”

Behind him there’s a growl. Two growls. A third.

There had been nothing there, he was sure of it. Now there are three enemies, or six, or nine, more growls than he can count with his brain being played like a xylophone.

“What’s this, Solheim? Special training?” Gladio readies his greatsword. “Bring it on, then! Don’t just stand there in the dark like cowards!”

Gladio doesn’t know who he’s fighting. He can’t see the enemies around him. He knows not having the measure of them before attacking is a disadvantage, but he doesn’t have time to assess the situation fully.

His king is lost somewhere in this hellhole, and Gladio needs to get back to him. He can’t get caught up here, where large and small blades flash, and the barrel of a handgun glints in the near-darkness. He has people to protect.

Gladio rages, and dives in to shed first blood.


End file.
